


The Gentle Murdering of Ourselves

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:56:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These barriers we formed from walls and skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gentle Murdering of Ourselves

Look at me. Look at my mouth, my words. We're a broken thing. We don't function apart but together something is loose, unpredictable. It's dangerous, you must understand. I need you as much as the birds need the ocean and I think you need me too - correct me if I'm wrong. But something is- is- is. Something is incorrect.

I don't quite understand what isn't working but every so often one part in our complexly simple machinery grinds to a shuddering halt and we're left stranded somewhere invisible. We don't know which part it is. I wouldn't say what we have crafted so gently here is unhealthy. I wouldn't say we are damaging to one another. But together- well. It's only a matter of time. 

I will fix this. Clouds roll and part and years trickle through the tiny gap like sand. I'll fix it. Fix it- I. I can fix this. Don't doubt me. I'm not doubting myself. 

It's not you. As much as you want to believe it, you're not the broken component. It's not me either. It's an element in our blood. A defect in the shapes of our kidneys. Something stuck in our bones. Inescapable and loud. 

It shouldn't take this much time. It shouldn't- I should be finished. This sky of ours is mocking my efforts. Maybe if I plant a tree the roots will grow in the direction of the problem. I belong with you, I know this. I'll scream it underwater. I'll whisper it into your skin. You're so much further ahead of me. 

I'll plant three trees, three thousand. I'll scrape dust off rocks, dry and pensive under the hottest of suns to see if the answer is written upon them in ink. I'll teach myself to breathe soil rather than air. Look at me, just look at me. I'll do anything. You're my. I know you're. Maybe you don't exist at all. Maybe I don't. I can't ever have been this lucky. 

But the walls of this house are compressing us, can't you see? The walls of our bodies. These barriers. Can you even see me anymore?

I have no other alternatives. I'm starting to wonder if there's anything broken at all. All it took was one simple fix. But we're never simple. 

I thought I could make this better, I thought I could make us better and I would put everything into my lungs and my mouth and the stars would stop shining only for a second but it would be enough time to gather ourselves together and for everything to realign and we could 

breathe 

again. 

I thought I could do it but I don't seem to be able to swallow without bleeding over everything. I can't contain that much light. 

Did I break us? Was there nothing wrong? Did I tinker too desperately to find perfection, did I scratch the already marred edges? This could have been our. We were supposed to be. All I want to do now is drink in your breath, but you took it with you inside your own head. 

Look at me. Look at my hands. There's blood on them, yes. There's blood on my hands but this time it's my own.


End file.
